


I’d love to see inside your mind, to tear it all apart, To cut you open with a knife and find your sacred heart.

by naripolpetta (mofumanju)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Community: 500themes_ita, M/M, Male Slash, Post Reichenbach, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:46:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mofumanju/pseuds/naripolpetta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything could change in three years. <br/>In three years, John has learnt that he can cling to something that doesn't exist anymore to survive. That he must find his moorings somewhere else, and cling to his until he bleeds. And it doesn't matter if his moorings hold a rifle on their hand and have a scar disfiguring his face.<br/>Really. It doesn't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’d love to see inside your mind, to tear it all apart, To cut you open with a knife and find your sacred heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I hadn't traslated some of my stuff in a long time, and I did this at 3 a.m. so I hope it has any sense. *laughs*  
> This is the first fic of a loooooooong series I'm writing in Italian, and since there are not many people loving this shipping - which I find absolutely amazing and omgitgivesmesomanyfeelings - I've decided to give it a try and translate it into English. :c The series follows a not-linear timeline, it jumps between June 2012 and May 2015. Guess why.  
> Well I've talked enough. Hope you'll enjoy it! <3 (and don't mind about long titles, I _love_ long titles.

With John's legs on his shoulders, and his pelvis moving almost desperately against his, Sebastian starts to wonder, between moans, if he isn't living in an alternative reality. It's surreal, getting inside him, and the sensation deepens because of John's room wrapped in a strange colour, the red of the late afternoon stained of grey eating the dark wall paper in huge bites, making everything turn into dark. John's features disappear in the shadows, bags under his eyes turning black, grey, black, grey, depending on Sebastian's thrusts, on his shadow projecting on that body that lost tonicity long time ago. Sebastian doesn't close his eyes, he prefers to watch him.  
John's blue irises don't exist anymore; there is only a grey line around a pupil too dilated to be real, and it's a problem, that silver thread, because it shines and slips away from John's eyes like a spurt of hot water falling under his eyelids.  
The first time the fucked, he didn't notice it. The first time he fucked him - because well, _he_ did the job, John just limited himself not to look at him and withstand the abuse in silence, as if that was a sort of punishment, another step towards martyrdom - he didn't look into his eyes, he didn't pay attention to the shade of his irises before and after sinking inside him. He has never taken these dull details into consideration. And it has been a mistake. Because John Watson is a fucking puppet master. And Sebastian noticed it too late.  
While he pushes inside him, while his ears are being filled with his voice - every gasp follows the rhythm of his thrusts, every moan is a bubble of lava popping and slipping into his stomach - while he grits his teeth to restrain his emotions, Sebastian feels something shaking in his stomach, and it is something that, if he had paid attention, he would have noticed a whole time ago.  
He bends over John, wrapping his hands around his neck.  
If he had paid attention, Sebastian would have noticed that that silver thread coming from John's eyes slips down this throat every time he kisses the doctor, every time his eyes meet John's blond lashes, or the red tip of his snub nose. If he had paid attention, he would have noticed that there is something inside him tightening and shaking him with shivers he has never felt before, a puppet that moves every time John runs his eyes over his body or he parts his lips to call his name.  
He presses his fingers around that amber skin, feeling the external carotid pulsing against his thumb. John's voice becomes hoarse, slowly disappearing. It would it take so little to make him die this way - and it would even be a bad death, fuck, it can't be a filthy death, dying by his hands. It would take so little, just the time of a useless fight with a predictable end, but no.  
No.  
John closes his eyes, whispering his name, and Sebastian's stomach wriggles again.  
Fucking puppet master. _Stay still, fuck. I'm trying to kill you._  
John raises his hands, but not to stop him. He raises them and rest them upon his face, and drags him down until the empty space between their lips is reduced to a few inches, and Sebastian can feel his breath, a thicker thread that gives him the final straw, and makes him stop thinking.  
He stops strangle him while he's coming. He noticed that John has already come when he hears him breathing normally again.  
He drops down John's side with a soft thud, pressing on his body not to fall. John's bed is too small for both of them, and yet they seem to fit it perfectly.  
Every time, Sebastian has the hunch that John disseminates traps around his house to bound him to a place that doesn't belong to him. He tightens his arm around John's waist, defying the come sticking on his forearm, and he snorts on the doctor's shoulder, the injured one, the one representing the only link between their past, the one that screams _I'm just like you_.  
He'd like a cigarette, a glass of scotch, a headache that stops his thinking.  
He must be content with John.


End file.
